Let It Go, or...

The Yoga Lesson in Disney's Frozen

If you know the song, you’re singing it in your head right now. 

There’s a lesson for yoga practice in there. Yeah. I didn’t know either. The lesson is this: If you look perfect in practice, yer doin it wrong. 

I was actually sick of “the Frozen song” until a new favorite yoga teacher used it to teach this badass lesson.

Let that image shit go.

I was traveling through San Francisco one autumn, desperately seeking yoga. I was sore and lethargic from sitting on airplanes and eating irregularly and not moving my body.

The only class I could fit in was an advanced level hot vinyasa flow. Right away, I was like “ugh, not my style.” I mean, I love practicing challenging poses at home, but this would be in public. In a heated room. With a teacher I didn’t know. At a strange studio. In a city far from home.

I felt really, really self-conscious.

I worried that I’d fall on my face and embarrass myself, so I kinda wanted to hide. I worried that the teacher wouldn’t immediately recognize that I’m a teacher, so I kinda wanted to stand out.

But I was desperate for a class.

“I can handle this,” I told myself. “I’m good at yoga!”

Ego can be a bitch. 

I walked up ten minutes before class, and there was a line of people waiting to check in. When I got into the huge room, the only spots left were near the very back or way up front. I took a spot in front, hoping that this clearly very popular teacher was one of those ignore-the-front-row types.

He bounced in radiating “lessss goooo!” energy. He bopped over to the sound system plugin. There was no pretense, no yoga voice, nothing but genuine enthusiasm. What happened next endeared Buddy Macuha to me forever.

The music started, “Snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen…”

I thought, “No. This is a joke. He’s going to turn this crap off any second now.”

He didn’t. 

Buddy said, “I love this song. It’s teaching me. Listen!” And he mimed belting the chorus into a microphone as Idina Menzel’s voice filled the room, “Let it go. Let it go. Can’t hold it back anymore.”

Buddy presented the theme of the practice this way. He encouraged us to let go, to push a little past where we felt comfortable and just practice. To try something that’s “too hard.”

“We’re an advanced class here,” Buddy explained, “You know how to keep yourself physically safe. Just don’t play it safe.”

If we felt like transitioning through a handstand, great. If we fell on our faces, great.

“Is there a pose you’re afraid of? Let’s do it! Time to let go of that fear,” he said.

The word fear landed like a brick in my stomach —

I was afraid. My throat got heavy as my eyes started to burn with tears. My mind tightened. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I have no business coming to an advanced class. Maybe I’m not good at yoga. Maybe I’m not a good yoga teacher. Maybe I’m a fraud. 

I pictured myself standing, rolling up my mat and suffering the awkwardness of leaving class before it even started. “Better than staying and crying, for God’s sake,” I thought. I was already way out of my comfort zone, and Buddy (and the Frozen song) were telling me to go further.

I took a deep breath, ready to get up… and that’s when Buddy stood right next to me.

Shit.

In a panic, I did the only other thing I could think of: I stayed. At least until he walked away.

“Take a deep breath,” he said, still right beside me. “And let.. it.. go.”

And I did. 

Watery-eyed, I sang the opening AUṀ with abandon, letting my ragged voice ring out. Buddy smiled at me. I shakily smiled back. 

We were up and moving within seconds, no time to hesitate. Buddy called out the poses in majorette cadence, snapping his fingers in a Z formation.

“Down Dog!” Snap snap.

“Chaturanga!” Snap snap.

“Up Dog!” Snap snap.

I smiled bigger in the privacy of Down Dog. “This guy is out there!” I thought. “There’s no way I could be the weirdest person in the room even if I tried.”

My mind-shackles loosened. I tried poses that made me nervous. I fell over and wanted to melt into the floor with embarrassment. I got up. I fell over again. I laughed. I left my self-consciousness in a sweaty puddle under my feet. I nailed some poses I didn’t think possible, trembling with effort and triumph. And I had an amazing, no-holds-barred, utterly joyous practice. 

These lyrics from the second verse still ring in my memory:

It’s funny how some distance makes everything seem small
And the fears that once controlled me can’t get to me at all

What are you afraid of? 

Falling over?

Embarrassing yourself?

Not knowing everything there is to know about yoga?

Getting called a fraud?

Being laughed at?

In the words of Disney’s Frozen and the wonderful teacher Buddy Macuha: “Let it go.”

Push yourself. Find your edge by actually visiting it. Peek over the edge, even. Scary things are not so scary when you look at them in the light of your own strength.

Dear Buddy, thanks again.

Leslie Kaminoff Made Me Cry (and it was awesome)

I'll post again later with more details about Leslie Kaminoff's four-day immersion, more context, more specifics on what I learned about breathing mechanics. For now, this post is about how a sprinkle of new experience changed my everything. I'm writing to those that shared this journey with me.

To you Silk Bridge attendees, thank you for your care, your powerful words, your outpouring of love that held me together on that day. I hope this post starts to answer all the beautiful questions you've been asking me.

Please leave me a comment here? I'd love to know more about what you felt, what you saw, what you learned. Your words here will bolster my healing and help tremendously as I continue to explore. As we learned in our Day 3 partner work, there's nothing like another perspective.

---

I took a full breath for the first time in 11 years, and it felt totally natural and completely unfamiliar. 

When I got home that evening, I was visibly exhausted and confused and overwhelmed. My partner Tony took one look at me and said, "Let's jump in the ocean." I put on my bikini. We walked across the sand and into the water. This is pretty much what I told him.

I started with the pee story, the infinity-pee that happened right after working with Leslie.

It felt like the longest pee of my life. Seriously, I just kept peeing and peeing until I felt hollow. This is not a metaphor. I wobble-walked to the bathroom, clung to the wall as I slowly slid down to the seat and peed and cried.

What?

Leslie Kaminoff made me cry.

How? Wait... why? WHAT?

He asked to work with me as a demonstration. I'd mentioned earlier in the day that I was in a car crash a long time ago that fractured my T12 vertebra.

I said okay.

He had me lie down with my knees over a bolster, and then he put a hand on my belly and mooshed his fingers around. He had me notice the amount of tension in my abdomen and pointed out that my muscles were pretty active for a person lying down and doing nothing but breathing.

We'd learned that breathing is shape change. We'd learned that the abdominal cavity contains non-compressible stuff, so it changes shape but not volume, like a water balloon, while the thoracic cavity contains the lungs (and other stuff), so it changes shape and volume, like an accordion.

When I breathe in, my lungs and rib cage have to expand, which means my non-compressible juicy bits have to poof out somewhere. But whoops, my belly muscles are holding everything in, which makes it impossible for me to take a full breath.

It's been 11 years since the car crash.

My bones and muscles healed beautifully. I worked damn hard on healing my movement ability, too. No one ever told me that maybe I could heal my breathing, or that I'd even need to. My breathing was fine, better than normal according to the machine with the floating ball and tube thingy in the hospital.

In 2005, one year after my spine fractured, I had no reason to believe that I wasn't fully recovered, except I couldn't dance. Specifically, I couldn't pirouette. I told myself "It's okay, you're alive, you can still teach, you love yoga" and I carried on.

In 2007, I had surgery to remove vocal nodes — my otolaryngologist told me the nodes had developed from overusing my voice, and have I ever considered a speech pathologist and a singing coach? No, but sure, off I went, adding to my existing team of physical therapists, massage therapists, Pilates teachers and yoga teachers. 

No one told me I wasn't breathing fully.

Then, I learned about the water balloon and the accordion.

This is what I remember happening as I lay there, under Leslie's hand.

• Breathe in.
• Breathe out. Hold the breath out.
• Engage belly muscles, try to push Leslie's fingers out as he pushes in.
• Disengage belly muscles. Relax completely.
• Inhale. (Leslie lets go.)
• Inhale some more.
• Inhale even more.
• Inhale so much it feels like a yawn that is yawning.

The release after that infinity-inhale was like sliding into a warm bath. I feel more soft and relaxed than I've ever been while fully awake and aware. Leslie leads me through a few more repetitions of the sequence, and that's when something in my spine unlocks.

It's sudden and scary and completely unexpected.

My entire history of spinal injury and breath-related trauma is rushing through my subconscious at this point. I'm not thinking thoughts, I'm feeling them run through my body. After more than a decade of restricted breathing, my nervous system has no clue what's going on.

I feel the panic rising.

My body is convinced I'm in danger. My ribs are moving with my breath — that's what it is. I feel unstable. Something is moving that should not be moving, something that has not moved for many years, not since everything around it broke. I start trembling.

Leslie talks softly to me. I can't remember the words. I'm falling through the floor, through space, totally out of control. 

Leslie keeps talking and he strokes my forehead. "This is natural. This is expected. You're doing great." I realize I've been sobbing. 

My fingertips start tingling after a few seconds. I mention this. Oh, it's the beginnings of hyperventilation. Hold the breath out. Wait for the inhale. That's all.

There's more belly-mooshing with Leslie's fingers, more gentle coaching to let the breathing happen. My bucket handles and pump handles are moving so much that the soft tissue of my upper chest gets an uncomfortable stretch with each inhale.

I am simultaneously freaked out and overjoyed.

Just as my conscious mind starts to enjoy the awesomeness of this newly enormous breath, my belly muscles start to lock down.

I remember practicing prāṇāyāma in the hospital. Lying there unable to move, ujjayi breathing gave me a sense of control. That's what's happening at this point. My get-a-grip survival habits are kicking in, hardening my abdominal wall and constricting my throat.

Leslie is still mooshing and smoothing. I'm sure he can feel me tensing up, and I tell him that I'm trying to relax and not fight it but it's not working.

He says that his hand is having a conversation with my belly that is wholly independent of "what's happening up here," gesturing to our faces. Leslie mooshes a little deeper and wiggles my right thigh, rotating it at the hip joint. "Can you feel that moving under my hand? That's your psoas. Kinda cool."

He keeps going with the mooshing and wiggling, and my body starts to feel more solidly on the floor. As I relax, my breathing gets much less big and deep. Right when I take a purposefully large inhale because I'm trying to be a really good demonstration person, Leslie says, "See how little of a breath you can get away with. You don't need much for just lying here."

The teeny tiny breath, he explains, is the opposite end of the spectrum from the huge breath. There's an obsession in yoga with stretching further and going deeper. Leslie suggests that we spend some practice time at the other extreme to see how that feels and experience a different context.

Everything gets fuzzy after that.

I sit up suuuper slowly and try my newly expanded breath in a different orientation to gravity. It is exhilarating. My vision seems sharper than usual.

Leslie helps me stand, again in super slow motion. I feel like I'm surfing the wobbly earth. He coaches me to roll down and hang out in a standing forward fold for a while. He tips me backwards onto him, resetting my body's relationship to gravity in that shape. He sets me back up onto my own feet and I roll up from there.

He asks if I'm okay. I do an awkward nod-shake-nod, and he says, "It's okay to not be okay."

---

I'm still processing this new information. There's a great big lot of it, in my nervous system, my muscles, my emotions, everywhere. I'm crying as I'm sitting here typing, feeling grateful and amazed and a little bit pissed.

I know that what I experienced is a high-water mark, not a pivot point, like "Yay, my breathing is fixed forever! Pirouettes for days! Thanks for the belly-moosh, LK!" 

Nope.

There's work to be done. My habits creep back into my body, my saṁskaras of 11 years will die hard, and I will feel every bit of that burn.

This is my new yoga practice. My tapaḥ. My sacrificial fire that transmutes my offerings, fueled by breath.

The Yoga of CrossFit

Those two don't go together, right? Well...

My CrossFit journey started this time last year, in May 2014. CrossFit Oahu set me up with my own personal training coach, Christine "Wojo" Wojciehowski, who patiently walked me through all the basics of common CrossFit movements and terminology. EMOM. AMRAP. 1RM. OHS. HSPU. WOD.* And so on.

An alignment nerd after my own heart, Coach Wojo was meticulous in her observation and feedback. "Initiate from your hips." "Keep the spine neutral." Even better, she reminded me over and over, "Write this workout down, and note the weight you used." She said, "You'll be surprised at how far you'll have come in a month." Or two months. Or a year.

I learned how to modify exercises I couldn't do yet, like handstand push-ups. I learned the difference between a push press and a push jerk. I learned that it doesn't matter how much weight you put on your barbell if you haul it up with a disorganized spine and janky kinematic rhythm, kind of like doing arm balances in yoga. I learned to be uncompromising in my form and unperturbed by others' "performance," also like yoga. And, I learned to keep a detailed logbook.

Rewind 10 more years. In May 2004, I'd just taken my first steps without the support of a titanium back brace. A drunk driver had hit my vehicle, and my spine broke in the crash. During the long recovery, my casual yoga practice turned into a serious dedication to pranayama — mindful, full body breathing. I ached to move my body more, but I couldn't even sit up in bed by myself. I couldn't walk to the bathroom. I was a yogini, a dancer, a theatre actor, and I was bedridden.

That Stephanie didn't have a logbook. In fact, I deliberately avoided leaving any evidence of my brokenness. I refused photographs, and I abandoned my journal. "This is not me," I told myself. I envisioned the story of my life blipping over the months of recovery, a blurry non-event, like the third grade photos that never quite made the family album. (I hid them. It was the '80s. Sorry, Mom.) It was denial as an attempt at bravery.

When I had a bad day, I assumed all my days henceforth would be bad. When I had a good day, I assumed all my days henceforth would be good, until the next bad day came along. I had no way of removing the emotional blinders of trauma to view my healing process clearly. Through all of the ups and downs, the overall trend was definitely upward, but if you asked me on a bad day I'd report otherwise.

When I finally stepped onto my yoga mat again, I cried with fear and with freedom. I had indelible knowledge that I was not invincible — I could and would break — but I wasn't dead. Each practice was a victory, and I could feel something starting to happen inside, something slowly getting stronger, more confident, less fearful and fragile. I committed myself to the yogic principles of non-violence, consistent practice, and self-study. Still, I avoided my journal.

As a result, when I pressed up into my first headstand after the crash, I had no clue how I got there. The headstand press was a monumental achievement, concrete evidence that I was healing beautifully. Sure, I'd been working on it, but for how long? And how often? What poses preceded the successful attempt? It was magical and I didn't care... until I couldn't do it again.

My mind raced: What did I do? What didn't I do? What's wrong??

No breadcrumbs. No way to get back to where I once was. I practiced on, but I admit, every time my body overcame a physical challenge it seemed like a happy accident. When I finally got another headstand, I thought, whoops, I guess that's cool.

Back to my first "real" CrossFit WOD last year, my very first experience of working out with the fire breathers, the twice-a-weekers, and the newbies like me, all in the same group. It reminded me of my very first yoga class: I knew I had the basics down and yet I still felt clueless.

My WOD book from that time lists my maximum effort particulars:

• Snatch 1RM — 25 lbs
• Deadlift 1RM — 65 lbs
• Pull-ups — 1 rep, using the thickest resistance band for assistance
• Push-ups — 2 reps, wobbly ones, from my knees

I couldn't run 200 meters without feeling like I wanted to throw up, or go home, or both.

Now, 12 months later, I'm regularly snatching 70 lbs, deadlifting 135 lbs. I'm still working on that one unassisted strict pull-up. It's coming. I can do standard push-ups in quick sets of 5, and last week I did my first hand-release push-ups, a plyometric movement that requires explosive strength, stability, and hardcore confidence. I regularly run 800 meters in under 4 minutes, which is further and faster that I ever have in my life. All of this without even considering puking. Win.

And double win: I know my strength and skill are not happy accidents. I've traced my steps. Before 135 lbs, I lifted 130 lbs. Before that, 125. I can look up the dates. I can find my way back.

CrossFit (and Coach Wojo) taught me that recording my progress is key to feeling accomplished, to knowing what exactly has changed and by how much. After each WOD, I write down how many reps I did, at what weight, and sometimes how fast. I note when my form started to break down, when and if I dropped down in weight as the workout went on, and a number of other factors that affect my work, like sleep and nutrition and stress level.

Logbook = journal with total objectivity.

I do not log my workouts to determine whether I'm strong or weak, better or worse, awesome or lamesauce; rather, I record my observations like a scientist so I have clear data on myself at an exact point in time. Furthermore, I have evidence that the work happened. I definitely did something. On a definite date. At a definite weight. For a definite length of time. It's all here in the logbook.

Call it outcome-focus. Fixation. Call it vanity, even. Too goal-oriented to be yoga.

Or, call it self-awareness. Call it a mindfulness practice, with supportive notes. Documenting landmarks on the endless journey. Small, daily affirmations with this simple proof: "Today, I did this." No subjectivity. No inner monologue of judgmental chatter. That 80-lb barbell came off the floor 30 times. For sure. And I felt like a badass.

And then, weeks later, I get to feel like a badass again when I re-read my notes.

There are still ups and downs, and charting out my growth over the last year clearly and unequivocally shows that the trend is upward. I might have a down day, or a down week. But now I have data that show I'm putting one foot in front of the other on a regular basis and I am getting somewhere. I have evidence that my down days consistently lead to up days.

Discouraged by a string of missed workouts? Derailed by the holidays? Flip flip flip the pages. Oh right, I'm a badass on a badass journey. Motivation, check.

Here's the yoga of CrossFit.

The practice of CrossFit, or yoga, isn't goal-driven if you don't have a goal. Case in point: I don't care what weight ends up being the heaviest lift of my life. I don't have an arbitrary goal time or goal number of reps in mind when I work out. Every time I step into the box, I'm focused on being the best that I can be that day: giving my whole heart, observing without judging, breathing. And every time I step onto my yoga mat, I'm focused on the exact. same. thing.

I am compassionately, non-violently celebrating my strength.

I am dedicated to consistent practice.

I am committed to knowing myself as I am, being curious about my growth, and accepting myself as I change.

There have been times when I look back on the just-finished WOD and think, "Oh boy, I'm a wreck. Everyone else was lifting way more than I was. I'm way outta my league." Like the bedridden Stephanie of years past, I want to erase the feelings of inadequacy by refusing to document the weak spot. But I grab my logbook anyway, and I write down the weight I did, the time, the reps... And there it is, in shaky blue ink, my weight, time, and reps from a similar workout a few months ago.

I may not be the strongest in the box, but I am the strongest Stephanie Keiko Kong that ever lived, and I've got the log to prove it.

P.S. Thanks, Coach Wojo.

*For the uninitiated and desperately curious:

• EMOM = every minute on the minute
• AMRAP = as many reps/rounds as possible
• 1RM = one rep max, the amount of weight lifted in a single maximum effort
• OHS = overhead squat, a standard squat with a barbell held overhead
• HSPU = handstand push-up
• WOD = workout of the day, always different, always challenging, always scalable to individual needs

Self-Bribery and Entrepreneurship : The Soul Pizza Blog

This article is fueled by wheat.

This is not so good because I'm kinda gluten intolerant. And by "kinda" I mean "explosively." So actually, it's bad. Just bad.

Confession : Every blog article I've posted so far has started with pizza followed by a bowl of Raisin Bran with almond milk. Yes, including this one. I'm not kidding.

It's like I need to trick myself into sitting down to write. It's hard to just do it. I'll get enthusiastically creative with my avoidance tactics. My excuses and procrastination look so plausible! The laundry must be done now because this place is a pigsty. (It's not.) And the grocery shopping has to happen immediately because we have no food and we will starve (We won't.) unless I put off this writing thing, which I will totally selflessly put off because I'm an adult with Important Things to get done.

Like, more important than pressing forward with my whole life's purpose.

I'm writing about answering my soul calling, making a life I love with my own two hands, creating my own beautiful vision of the world one day at a time, which is the very essence of entrepreneurship. Which is why it's hard to write. Which is why I "need" pizza. Soul pizza. I'm sure you know what I mean.

Entrepreneurship is the highest spiritual calling.

Difficult things are difficult. Some of them are very straightforward, even simple, which I often mischaracterize as "easy." Or worse, the "should-be" kind of easy.

Writing about yoga? Should be easy.

Speaking up for what I believe in? Should be easy.

Arranging my whole life around happiness and fulfillment? Should be easy.

But it's not. Very not.

Despite the should-ing all over myself, I know in my bones that the path I've chosen is less traveled not because it is less beautiful, but because it is challenging and confronting as fuck.

Unknown success is scarier than certain failure.

Marianne Williamson writes in this vein: "Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure."

Recognizing my power, owning it, and learning to wield it with grace is the hardest thing I've ever done, but I know I don't earn bravery points for doing things that don't actually scare me. Plan for the worst? No problem. The other thing? Well... yikes. 

To come into my power, I quit the security of my full-time job. I knew I had to bank on myself, like, literally. Double yikes.

I was so scared I cried for days, overwhelmed with guilt and grief and fear. So many people need a job, and I threw mine away. I'm so selfish. The past three years, down the tubes. I asked for this, so if I fail it's all my fault, and I'll be run up as the most foolish, prideful person to ever walk the earth. And so on.

So sometimes it takes some self-bribery to get going. My suitcase full of cash is a bowlful of bran. I tell myself I've been working hard. (I have been.) I give in to my pizza+cereal craving. I experience an endorphin rush from doing something transgressive, and I channel that pep into starting the work I'd been putting off. That strong (albeit gluten-fueled) start is enough to trigger another wave of pep that lasts until the work is well under way, at which time I can follow the momentum through the end of the project. And then I take a wheat-related nap.

I'm not advocating for weird diet choices (or vices of any kind) to force yourself to do something odious. However, I am making a case for doing what you have to do to get the good wheels turning, whether they represent best-case circumstances or not. This shit is hard to do, and beating yourself up for needing a jumpstart just makes things even harder.

Entrepreneurship is the highest spiritual calling. It is putting your lifestyle on the line for what you believe in.

You've got values? Great. Would you bet your next month's rent on them? I wouldn't dream of it before. And now, I DO. Every. Single. Month.

Three years ago, I'd turn in 40-hour weeks, collect my salary, and legitimately bemoan the lack of time and energy to make lifestyle changes. I had stress-related headaches, I slept terribly, I ate meals at my desk, and I practiced yoga as a stopgap. I was also teaching yoga, as an outlet for what I really believed in, and to connect to a community that I really cared about.

"Make time for yourself," I'd tell my yoga students, and I felt like a hypocrite. Shit, I was a hypocrite.

Now, when I teach yoga, when I speak at trainings and workshops, when I write right here, I am living my message of wellness through self-care, self-acceptance, self-love. I am making a stand for my values, whether my students and readers realize it or not. I am putting my money where my mouth is, which is incidentally also where my pizza is.

My teaching is imbued with firsthand stories from my own life in the mainstream workforce. I speak from experience. I know how to make it work, and I know how it can suck.

I know you don't have to accept money to make your contribution real. You don't have to make it your full-time job. You are not your paycheck. Your values, your choices, your everyday mundane actions — this is what defines a spiritual entrepreneur. Your heart, your time, your sweat make a sacred space for your kind of magic.

15-hour workdays.

Staying up all night to push a project through.

Regularly questioning if you've really got what it takes.

Growing apart from friends — the ones that don't understand your path.

Gear-shifting between five-year executive decisions and filing last week's receipts.

And the weird dinners of... well, you know.

All you entrepreneurs out there, you strong, brilliant half-crazy souls that dare answer that calling, I raise a bowl of Raisin Bran to you. You self-improve and soul-search like it's your job because it is your job. Cheers. May the road ahead be paved with whatever you want to pave it with.

Thank you for reading. Really.

Alignment Points for Getyourasstoclassasana

Today, we're breaking down the most challenging yoga pose of all. Many attempt it; a strong few succeed. I've fallen down on this one myself. It's unlike any other posture, but every yogāsana depends on the success of this one.

Get-your-ass-to-class-asana

Although it can be a difficult practice, Getyourasstoclassāsana is almost impossible to do wrong. In fact, the only potential for failure lies in not doing it at all. Here are my tips for getting into it, gracefully or not.

Before class:

• Leave yourself a voice memo, a realtime message in your own happy vibration. Be specific and concrete in your feelings and needs. Make a clear request. Sign off with affection. Here's a message I left myself last week: "Dear Stephanie, when you practice yoga, you feel relaxed and strong and cared for. You have a deep need for healthy movement. Please go to that 9:00 yoga class by getting your butt out the door by 8:20. Love, your body-mind-spirit, especially your tight hips"

• Clear the runway the night before. Put the yoga pants next to the wallet and car keys. For a home practice, shove some clutter aside and roll out the yoga mat in the living room. Have the breakfast smoothie pack prepped and waiting in the fridge. Bonus: Taking action to prime your environment gives you a running start toward your desired outcome.

• Do it in the morning. Willpower can be exhausted by a full day's work making decisions. This is why most workplace extramarital affairs begin after long workdays, and why most diets are broken late at night. Making good decisions — and resisting bad ones — is much harder when you're tired.

• Write out a plan for each contingency. Miss the bus? Hit the 10:30 class instead of the 9:00. Kids late to school? Check out the new studio down the block. Morning routine is a total shitshow? Have a change of clothes stashed at your workplace and hustle to the gym for a quickie class on your lunch break. Bonus: Have a backup plan for your backup plan. Put that yoga DVD right where you'll see it before all hope is lost. It will not be ideal, but you know how to make the most of any class. Ask your yoga teacher how late you can possibly arrive without messing up the experience. Sure, punctuality is preferred, but as a yoga teacher, I say missing the first 10 minutes is way better than missing class altogether. If you've already got a plan in place, all you have to do is execute it. No decisions; just DO.

• Don't put it on your calendar. Do you put brushing your teeth on your calendar? Is every meal you plan to eat for the week on your calendar? Of course not.* Making these seemingly hardline commitments and then flexing them due to inevitably changing schedules is a sure way to feel like a failure before you've even really failed at anything. "I missed my 9:00 class. I FAIL AT YOGA." No, you don't. You just missed part of your routine. I've walked out of my house with fuzzy teeth before. That's why I have a toothbrush in my purse — I planned for that contingency. Say no to schedule guilt.

*Unless you're doing a Paleo Challenge or Sugar Impact Diet or some such nutrition program. If so, calendarized meals are totally a thing — I've done it; I get it.

After class:

• Buddy up. Communities are created from the basic human need to be socially supported. You don't have to become yoga besties or even Facebook friends. You do have to realize that if you don't show, you'll be missed.

• Log it. I know, I know, yoga isn't a thing to be measured. Measure it anyway. Ten words for each practice is enough, e.g. "I. Hate. Triange. My hamstrings are steel cables of pain." Writing down the experience makes it more significant, more memorable, and ultimately more valuable. By leaving even the thinnest trail of breadcrumbs, you can trace your way back through weeks and months of practice, e.g. "Triange pose no longer sucks. I kinda like the stretch."

• Take photos. No one else ever has to see them. Never mind how you look. Focus on the breath, the alignment, and maximum integrity in the body. Choose one pose or many. Photograph yourself again at month intervals.

• Send yourself a postcard from the other side. This technique is similar to leaving that encouraging voice memo, juiced up with a little more breathless enthusiasm. This is the text of the postcard that sits on my desk, which is where I'm usually sitting when I waffle over getting my butt to yoga: "You just got back from yoga class! You feel amazing. You're a shiny, happy Stephanie, bursting with endorphin-fueled inspiration and ready-to-go-ness. You feel powerful, loved, and superstrong. YOU WIN."

Ultimately, it's not the end of the world if you miss a class.

It doesn't make you a bad person, and it doesn't make you a yoga failure. Missing a practice now and again puts you squarely with the majority of yogīs and really, with the majority of all humans that have ever tried creating a new habit.

The important learning aspect of missing a yoga practice is the opportunity we have to start again. And again. And again. Here's to many beautiful beginnings.

Now, get your ass to class.

My Daily Practice

I'm one week back from India, emerging from immersion in the heart of sound. Our group spent over 100 hours studying and practicing mantra, nada yoga, Tantric philosophy, asana, Hindustani classical music, and more, each day soaked in sacred vibration.

Am I a more spiritual being?

I feel more awake, more alive, more aware, but how can I be "more spiritual," especially when I admit to my cravings of the past weeks?

• I want to take a warm shower and wash my hair.
• I want to wear a sports bra – as a top – with no regard for modesty.
• I want a pedicure for my dirty, tired feet.
• I want to drive my car.
• I want bacon and eggs.

Every day during this course, our group rose before dawn to meet on the ghat – the wide steps that lead right down into the holy river Ganga – for silent japa meditation. I held my mala. I watched the lightening sky reflected in the water. Sometimes I felt peace; sometimes I felt restless. Twice I cried: once out of pure joy and once because I felt overwhelmed. Not sad, not frustrated exactly, but overwhelmed with the enormity of this journey, both physical and subtle.

Some days I felt a ringing freedom, a rush of exhilaration that lasted the entire time I sat on the chilly concrete steps. It was like flying a kite in an open field on a perfectly breezy day – effortless, soaring, giddy magic. On other days it felt like trying to fly a kite on a crowded street with no wind at all. I just couldn't seem to get going, and things kept getting in the way.

Aum Namah Sivaya. Hey, cool bird. Aum Namah Sivaya. I'm hungry. Aum Namah Sivaya. My butt is cold. Aum Namah Sivaya. What is that smell? I wonder what's for breakfast. Aum...

Like I couldn't get up enough momentum to leave the ground much less soar, hampered by my busy thoughts. My mind threw up obstacle after obstacle, and I didn't feel any flow. I'd check my mala for progress... and groan inside.

But still, I was out there, morning after morning, seated in meditation... or whatever. Doing the thing, or at least trying to do the thing as best I could.

This was and is my morning sadhana, my daily practice. It is not a singular great effort; rather, it is a thousand thousands of tiny drops that eventually fill the bucket to overflowing. Which drop matters more? The perfect, easy flowing drops? Or the hard-squeezed, reluctant drops?

Every drop counts.

I think of my sadhana as brushing my spiritual teeth. Not glamorous. Not cover photo worthy, although there are loads of magazines dedicated to "the right meditation for you," "finding your perfect practice," "top tips for beginning meditators," et cetera.

Here are my tips: 

• It will suck sometimes. Do it anyway.
• It will be awesome sometimes. Enjoy.
• Your mind wandering is a sign that you are indeed a human being with a functioning brain. Keep going.
• Keep going.
• Keep going.

It's called a practice, not a perfect. Keep going.

This is tapasya, the burning of spiritual fire. Fire burns. Fire destroys. This is a good thing, because ultimately, fire cleanses. You will be uncomfortable. You will sweat and protest. Do it anyway. You will make excuses. You will want to give up. Keep going, because sometimes you will have a really, really good time.

Tiny stitches, one by one, create a beautiful tapestry. Follow the thread. Pick it up when you drop it. (And you will drop it. It's okay. Really.)

Know in your bones that success is inevitable when you dedicate your whole heart to yourself. And just. Keep. Going.

I am not "more spiritual" now than I was before – I cannot be – because I have always been wholly spiritual, as have you. 

Through regular practice, I am discovering my own kind of everyday divinity: a little more connected each day to the deep, quiet spirituality inherent in all beings.

I invite you to join me. Let's practice together. I'll write here, and I hope you'll write back when you feel so moved. Put your email in the box below for sweet updates so we can keep the fire going.